The Polish Connection 14

February 1916

How wonderful it was to hear from Peter and to know he was safe, and also to have the added bonus of getting a letter from his friend, who has such a way with words. I sat down and wrote back to each of them, telling them the little details about our lives. I told them about the latest letter I had just had from John. I also wanted to know what had happened to Peter between the time he left my house and when he arrived in the Isle of Man.

Dear Barbara,

You asked about my life between leaving your house and getting here. Well, I was on the way to work early one morning in mid November, and I was stopped by a policeman at the top of the road. He said there had been a report of a strange man in the area, and they were checking each person who went over towards Mill Brow. Of course, it was soon discovered that I was not pure English, my accent gave me away if nothing else. I told them I was on my own, living rough, and didn’t mention my work or your house or Beth. I don’t think they believed me, but they were only interested in taking me to the station. There after close questioning, I had to admit that I came from Germany, and that was all they needed to send me here. First I went to a place in Liverpool where all the new internees were gathered until a sufficient number justified a boat load across. It was on the boat across that I met Paul. He had been kept in the London area, a place called Stratford, for the first part of his internment. We became good friends from the start and will no doubt stay that way.

Love

Peter

And then came his second letter of the week.

Dear Barbara,

You asked about how our camp is organised. There are four sub-camps, each ruled by a sub-commandant. Each of these camps is divided into five to seven “compounds” containing nearly a thousand men each when full. Each compound is wired off from its neighbours, and only a few men with special duties can pass from one compound to another. The inhabitants of each compound are subdivided again into companies, each under its own leader. Constant head-counts are made to ensure against escapes. On the upper slopes of the hill attached to Camp III are the hospital huts, including special wards for venereal, tubercular, and for mental cases. On the other side of the camp, across the main road, lays a little piece of ground which is known as “Camp V” - the burying ground of the little church at Knockaloe.

Since you asked, I don’t know how much money I would need to buy my way into the Douglas Camp. I will see if I can find out and let you know. But I feel dreadful at the thought of letting you spend your money on my welfare. I know you say that it is for the benefit of Beth’s father, and it is important to her that I have a better life. Anyway, I will find out and we can then see what happens.

Love

Peter

And my letter from Paul:

Dear Barbara,

Perhaps I can tell you about my first day here. I felt that I was not a human being called by a name but an interned civilian numbered nineteen thousand and something, as shown by a metal disc to be delivered in camp. We were marched through the town, the inhabitants, thank God, showing no interest whatever in what had long become a daily sight to them. I don't know what they looked like, it was too dark to see them. Some of the men began to sing, which is, I suppose, unavoidable when people are marching: the soldierly spirit. But their choice irritated me - an old German song of soldiers leaving their town and their sweethearts in order to march to battle and heroic deeds, really a most inappropriate choice for the occasion. So I asserted my individual freedom by not joining in the singing.

The chains of light came nearer and nearer, the mirage faded. Barbed wire appeared, long, endlessly long stretches of barbed wire, five or six yards high. And faces and more faces behind the wire, thousands of caged animals. I was very, very weary. At last a gate opened in the barbed wire wall, we entered sinking deep into slippery clay. In front of us lay, on the left, free space, on the right, tightly-clustered wooden huts, the whole surrounded by tall barbed wire and arc-lamps. The gate closed behind us.

I am curious as to your American origins and how you met John.

Best regards,

Paul

And before the end of the week, I heard from them again.

Dear Barbara,

You asked what the camp looks like and how we spend our days. 

There are a dozen or more long, low wooden huts, each of which houses about fifty men. Our huts contain a long table and a heap of pallets piled up in a corner. When we arrived, the wash-house was as yet unbuilt; so far there were only buckets which could be put on the ground somewhere after having been filled at the pump. I had to borrow a towel. I found washing in the outside air rather pleasant, though it took an acrobat to keep an already washed foot clean while washing the other.

When we first arrived we were formed into a square to await the visit of the Commandant, overlord of all prisoners of all Knockaloe, who was coming to receive us into his realm. We waited what seemed a long time and then the great man appeared at last. He was or looked very old, rather peevish and at the same time rather shy. I believe he felt uncomfortable. All sorts of old colonels have been dug out of their retirement, and probably they have not chosen the most eminent soldiers for jobs of this sort. This old man certainly is what one must–for want of a better or more intelligible term - describe as a gentleman, that is why he does not care for his job and does not enjoy being here. Also, he has to repeat the performance every other day, when a new lot of one thousand stare at him with hostility, fear, anger, or amusement, according to temperament, or more likely with a mixture of all these feelings. He said if we followed the rules, he would be fair with us. If we tried to escape we would be shot.

Love from Peter

And in the same post came the next one.

Dear Barbara,

We are so pleased to get your letters and to know you are enjoying the ones from us. It gives a pattern to our week – writing and reading your letters - which makes life much more pleasant.

Now for more about our first days here. Peter and I were telling you about the commandant’s first speech. He pointed vaguely to the hills and said in a raised voice: ‘The latrines will be finished soon [pause] I hope.’ And that was all, but his hope did not materialize for many days, and then it materialized in the opposite direction to the one he had indicated. Meantime there were buckets and plain air and though it may sound absurd this was felt as extremely humiliating and disgusting by most. In fact, one could not get used to it ever (even a good many animals seek privacy on these occasions).

After the Commandant had had his say a German interpreter repeated his words. He was far more impressive: a soldier born. He shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Der Herr Kommandant hat gesagt, etc.’ And that ended the ceremony.

There is a sort of shanty called a canteen, standing just outside the wire, with its counter open to the camp, where we can try to buy things. Hundreds were waiting already. I waited for about two hours and everything had been sold out when my turn came. You asked what you might send us. Simple things like soap and toothbrushes and toothpaste would be very welcome. Handkerchiefs too, and perhaps gloves and socks. I know Peter feels awkward being obliged to you, but I will tell you freely that we would be most appreciative of anything and everything you might send.

Regards,

Paul

So having shared these letters with Rebecca and Beth, we set out the next day to make a parcel for Peter and Paul, and collected all the things they asked for and a few besides. I put in a copy of the book, The Thirty Nine Steps by John Buchan, which had been recently published and had rave reviews. It seemed a man’s book to me and I hoped they would enjoy it. Peter perhaps could not read English, but it would be a good book for Paul to use to teach him. We made some brownies, an American favourite food, the recipe for which I had brought with me when I moved to England, and I hoped Peter and Paul would enjoy them as much as Rebecca and Beth did.

Paul had asked about how I came to meet John. It all seems so long ago now. I was born in Independence, Wisconsin, my parents having emigrated from Poland in 1860, that same part where Peter comes from, where the Germans are now in control. I was the youngest child and somewhat of a surprise to them, I think.

I had a good upbringing and proved to be rather clever, so they agreed to me going to Northwestern University at Evanston, Illinois, near Chicago, when I was eighteen, to study history and music, as I am quite accomplished on the piano and organ. There were many Kuligs who were relatives of ours living in Chicago. Also, Peter’s aunt Anna lived there, but of course I knew nothing of him at that time. The same week I arrived there, I met John who had come there for a year’s research in science. He had been attracted by the Dearbourne Observatory which was on the campus, and the Professor of Astronomy lived there, and John wanted to meet him. John actually worked for Professor Ulysses S. Grant, who was a biologist originally, and latterly a geologist. His specialty was working with iron, lead, zinc and copper, and those were the same minerals that particularly interested John. He was part of the McCormick School of Engineering and Applied Science.

We immediately fell in love and my parents approved of him, so I dropped my studies and before he left to go back to England, we were married at the church in my home town. We then came to England where I was introduced to his family in Worcester, and then we moved to Manchester, where he had secured a job at Manchester University. We lived in rented accommodation in Marple for the first few years and Rebecca was born there. Then in 1912 we moved to our present house in Mellor, which was built in 1909. I missed my home very much for the first year, but John’s family in Worcester were very supportive to me.

I certainly appreciate the much milder climate of England having withstood huge temperature changes in Wisconsin, from being in the 100°s in the summer to the minus 40°s in the winter with feet of permanent snow from October onwards. I, of course, have letters from my family in America, although very infrequently now the war is on, and I hope one day to be able to go back and visit again, but I now feel myself to be truly English.

There were more articles of interest in the High Peak Reporter, to be shared now both with John and with Peter and Paul.

BEWARE OF ZEPPELINS

On Friday night last week the public lamps in Marple were not lit so as to darken the streets and lanes - a precaution against Zeppelins. This was done as a result of the meeting of the Gas Committee of the District Council held on the previous night. As a result people were fumbling and stumbling about in the dark, quite nonplussed by the unwonted condition of things. But most of the Marple lamps are lit by means of clockwork and so these are always lit and show up on a dark night, even when the full pressure is not on. And they were like this on Friday night and have been on other nights since. Is this wise? Would not a Zeppelin passing over Marple see lines of lights beneath? Most of the shops were darkened, while others seemed as bright as ever. It is time something was done to prevent Marple being made a target for night raiders. A great flaring light at the bottom of Market Street used to show up the Hollins Mill as if by searchlight.

We had bad news, although not totally unexpected, this week. Father Cornelius McSweeney, who has been our priest for thirty five years, died on the 22nd. His body will be taken back to Ireland for burial in a week or so. I don’t think they have appointed a new priest yet but I am sure that the priest from New Mills, Father McKenna, will try to at least have one mass on Sundays here until it is all settled.

Here is what the newspaper said about Father McSweeney, which wasn't really about him at all.

Father McSweeney

The passing of Father McSweeney of St Mary’s takes back to the long distant past the memories of old residents of the district who think of his notable predecessors Father Luke and Canon Scully and of the social local changes that have taken place in the meantime.

Marple Bridge once had a reputation for being a very rough place and very unpleasant for quiet peaceful people. There used to be rows and drunken fights every Saturday night and it was a disagreeable experience to go past the public houses. Sometimes the knife was used, and the writer remembers seeing a man in a cart at the bottom of Marple Bridge being taken to Stockport to be tried of stabbing and killing a man in a brawl. But Father Luke had a short summary way with brawlers and fighters. He used to carry a thick heavy stick and when a fight was going on people would send for him and he would lay his stick on the offenders and usually there was a sudden subsidence of the row. He was like oil on troubled waters. Canon Scully was a scholar and pugnacious controversialist. He used to go about the roads and walk about with his spectacled face deeply buried in his book and his lips moving as he read. He and the Late Rev. Thomas Matthew Freedman, Vicar of St Thomas Mellor were great friends, but they used to have great controversies in the local papers about their historical and ecclesiastic position of the Church of England and Rome.

Our weather has been unseasonably cold with heavy snow. Yesterday Rebecca bundled up warmly and fought her way through the snow up the hill, but when she got there, she was only one of thirteen children out of the 74 children who was there on time. They waited until 9.30 but the numbers had only gone up to 20, so they sent all the children home for the day. I do hope being in that snow won’t have weakened her resistance. There is a lot of whopping cough going around, and several of her classmates have it.